Shrugging aside his unease, Michael ushered the new arrivals into his cabin. Settled into a comfortable armchair, he studied his two new captains with a critical eye while the drinkbot served coffee. One thing was shockingly evident: how young both Rao and Machar were. Michael knew he was hardly a candidate for senior citizen of the year, but, those two were babies. Rao reminded him a bit of Anna: the same honey skin, a fall of fine black hair cut into a fashionable bob to frame a face dominated by pink-dusted cheeks and a firm, full nose. The similarities stopped there; Rao was much taller, heavily built, and with eyes so dark that they were almost black. Machar’s bloodlines were pure African; he had the blue-black skin, height, rangy frame, whipcord muscles, and tightly-curled hair of his Nuer ancestors, migrants in the second great wave of the diaspora from Old Earth. Like most Feds, Machar was deeply proud of his links to Old Earth, links that had survived separation measured not in days and meters but in centuries and trillions of kilometers. The four small scars on his forehead bore testament to his distant roots in drought-stricken, violence-wracked Sudan.
Michael had studied their service records in detail.
Rao had seen combat in the heavy scout Aldebaran, Machar in the light escort Sarissa. They were the cream of the young officers coming out of Space Fleet College: natural leaders, technically sound, quick-thinking, and steady under pressure. Both were instinctive tacticians, their fitness for their new roles confirmed by weeks of cruelly intensive assessment under the critical eyes of Jaruzelska and her staff.
Even so, Michael wondered how they would hold up when Hammer rail-gun slugs and missiles started to tear their ships apart around them, an experience far beyond anything the sims could inflict on a spacer. Thus far, both had been lucky—though they had seen combat, their ships had come through the war unscathed, hit by not a single missile or rail-gun slug—so Michael knew he had reason to be skeptical. Rao and Machar might be fine on paper, they might be good in the sims, but they were a long way from being combat-hardened.
“Once again,” Michael said, “welcome. First things first. Any issues with your ships or your crews that I need to know about? Kelli?”
“None, sir,” Rao said. “Retrieve is 100 percent. The yard did a good job with the conversion, though it’s obviously a bit rough in places. I know how much pressure they were under. All systems are nominal, we’ll be fully massed within the hour, and we’re provisioned for war patrol. Same goes for all the ships of the Second. We’ve crawled over them, we’ve checked every last square centimeter, and they are all operational. As to my crew, again no problems that I can see. I have a good executive officer, and my coxswain is old school, which I suspect is a good thing. The rest look good if their service records are to be believed, but I guess we’ll have to see how they hold up when we get to grips with the Hammers.”
“Nathan?”
“Same, sir. Recognizance is 100 percent, my exec and crew look good, and the same goes for the ships of the Third. We’re ready to go.”
“All right. Next thing. Training.”
Michael tried not to laugh when Rao and Machar flicked sideways glances at each other. He understood how they felt. Not for nothing was Fleet called humanspace’s largest training organization; at times it seemed to do nothing else.
“The admiral and I have finalized the training plan for your squadrons,” Michael said. “Our aim is to have you combat-ready in three months”—the new captains blinked anxiously—“so you and your crews will be busy. I’m afraid all you have to look forward to is long days, not much sleep, and a lot of pressure. A word of caution, though. Given the shortage of capital ships in our order of battle, we may not have three months. If the Hammers start pulling stunts on us, Fleet may not … no, will not be able to leave thirty perfectly good heavy cruisers idling their time away doing endless sims. So train like every day in the sims was your last before you deploy on active service, because a few hours may be all the notice we get. Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Rao and Machar chorused, faces tightening as the enormousness of the task ahead of them sank in.
“Good. But remember this. Dreadnoughts are Hammer killers. They’re faster, tougher, better armored than anything they have in space. You’ve seen the records of our operations to date?”
Rao and Machar nodded.
“So you’ll know what I mean. In all of Fleet history, ships have never been considered expendable. We don’t throw ships away; we don’t sacrifice crews. Never have. But dreadnoughts have changed that. The unmanned dreadnoughts in your squadron are expendable, and don’t you forget it. I’m not saying waste them, but you will find you can use dreadnoughts in ways that few senior officers with all their years of command and combat experience ever could. Something, I might add, we have proved conclusively not just in the sims but in combat. And that’s the reason why you’re the captains of Retrieve and Recognizance instead of a pair of crusty old four-ringers.”
“Did you wonder why on Earth Fleet would give me an entire heavy cruiser squadron to command?” Machar said.
“There’s your answer.”
“Explains why we have been … well, why …” Rao’s voice trailed off.
“Treated like shit is what I think you are trying to say, Junior Lieutenant Rao,” Michael said bluntly. “Why are you surprised? If Fleet did to the rest of the fleet what it’s done to dreadnoughts, there’d be what … half as many officers needed? Maybe even less. It’s no wonder they’re unpopular. Fleet has its fair share of Luddites, and they aren’t going to sit around and let people like us change the world any more than we can change human nature. That’s just the way it is, so get used to it.”
“Yes, sir,” Rao said, looking embarrassed.
“Now you know. Which brings me to what may be a more important reason. Let me tell you about the poor old Pericles, the reason why dreadnoughts make some people very, very nervous, the reason why some of those Luddites aren’t completely wrong. Now …”
“How did it go, sir?”
“Rao and Machar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pretty good, Jayla, pretty good.” Michael looked at his executive officer for a moment before continuing. “But …”
“But what, skipper?”
“A couple of buts, I suppose. Neither of them has commanded anything bigger than an assault lander, and neither has been on the receiving end of a really serious Hammer attack. All we know about them is what the selection process told us—all good, of course—but how they’ll go when they take their squadrons into combat, when they have to stare down an oncoming Hammer task group throwing missiles and rail-gun slugs at them, when it’s time to make the hard decisions, that’s another matter.”
“That’s not all that’s worrying you, is it, sir?” Ferreira said softly.
Michael stared at his executive officer keenly. “Remind me,” he said, “not to take you for granted, Jayla. No, it’s not. One thing in particular bothers me. When you play war games in a sim, only your reputation is on the line. When we take the dreadnoughts into battle, everything is on the line, and I’m not talking about whether we come home alive or not. No, there’ll be a lot more than that at stake.”
Ferreira nodded. “The Federation and what it stands for, families, the people we love, friends, homes. Those are the stakes.”
“They are.”
“They don’t get much bigger.”
“No, they don’t,” Michael said. “The only reason we have dreadnoughts in our order of battle is because the Federation is screwed without them. The Hammers have more ships than us. They have more antimatter warheads. If they had the balls, they could … they would destroy our home planets. They beat us to a pulp at Comdur, and they can pulp us again. So we have to stop them. Despite all the crap dished out by the antidreadnought lobby, that’s the only reason we have dreadnoughts. Me? I think I can handle it. But Rao and Machar? How will they go when they have to make decisions in combat knowing that the Federation mi
ght fall if they get it wrong?”
Ferreira said nothing, and the silence that followed went on for a long time.
Saturday, January 20, 2401, UD
Operation Opera headquarters, Comdur Fleet Base
The conference room stayed silent when the speaker paused.
“So to sum up, the concept of operations for Operation Opera envisages a battle-fleet-sized operation spearheaded by the dreadnought force”—an ugly murmur filled the air—“with conventionally crewed ships and a marine landing force following up. Their task will be the destruction of the Hammer antimatter plant.”
The speaker, a young captain from Fleet’s plans division, stopped again. “And let me just make this point,” he continued. “Dreadnoughts are the only way to make this operation a success. That is,” he said, his words deliberate, “unless you consider the loss of more than sixty heavy cruisers along with their entire crews an acceptable casualty rate. Well, I don’t … and I suspect none of you do, either. Unless there are any questions, I would like to hand over to Warfare Division for their critique … No questions? Thank you. Captain al-Fulani?”
Michael wanted to stand up and cheer. Of all Fleet’s staff divisions, plans—traditionally home to some of the best and brightest minds in Fleet—was the only one wholeheartedly in support of dreadnoughts, and it was good to see a staffer with the balls to stand up in public and say so. He watched Captain al-Fulani make her way to the lectern. Michael had met al-Fulani only once; it was enough. She—not to mention her division—was as implacably opposed to dreadnoughts as Plans was supportive.
“Thank you,” al-Fulani said, “though regarding the reliance of the concept of operations on dreadnoughts, we would like it noted that we don’t support—”
“Enough!” Fleet Admiral Kefu cut al-Fulani off, his voice harsh. The chief of the defense force stood up. He turned to look at the assembled staffers, making no attempt to conceal his anger.
“The objections of those of you,” Kefu said carefully, deliberately, “who cannot accept that dreadnoughts have any part to play have been heard … considered … and taken into account. But it seems I still have to remind far too many of you that we don’t have the luxury of endless debate. If we do not deal with the Hammers and soon, we may find ourselves arguing over the ashes of dead planets. Our home planets. My home planet. My home. My family.”
Kefu paused, looking hard at the officers arrayed in front of him. “I will not allow that to happen. So, for those of you a bit slow to understand what’s going on, listen up, because I will not be saying this again. The role of dreadnoughts in the attack on the Hammer antimatter plant will be exactly as recommended by Plans Division. The commander in chief has made that decision. I have formally endorsed it. So stop wasting your time and mine by prolonging an argument that is over.”
Kefu stood silent for a moment, face flushed with anger. “Now … if there is anyone here,” he said with great deliberation, “who cannot live with that decision, you should leave. I will expect your resignations on my desk first thing tomorrow morning … Anyone … no takers? Good. It seems that military discipline does still mean something. I must say I was beginning to wonder.”
Making an obvious effort to regain control, Kefu turned to look at al-Fulani. “Captain. How about you? You seem happy to question the decisions of your superiors in an open forum. Should I expect your resignation?” Kefu’s tone was brutal.
Fascinated, Michael watched al-Fulani squirm. It was not often that Fleet officers committed professional suicide in public, but al-Fulani just had. Kefu was an unforgiving man, and he never, ever forgot. The woman was finished, her career flushed down the crapper. If she had any sense, she would resign.
“Well?” Kefu barked.
“My apologies, sir,” al-Fulani replied, her face red with a mix of embarrassment, anger, and fear. “I’m in, sir,” she stammered, “of course.”
“I bloody well hope so,” Kefu said venomously. “I have better things to do than keep insubordinate Fleet staffers in line.” He turned to look at the head of Fleet’s warfare division. “Admiral Chenoweth. I do not need your people second-guessing the commander in chief’s decisions. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir,” the admiral said, his face betraying anger at the humiliation Kefu was heaping on him. “It will not happen again.”
“For your sake, Admiral, I hope it doesn’t,” Kefu said, sitting down. “Captain al-Fulani, please continue.”
“Thank you, sir, … er,” al-Fulani said, clearly rattled by Kefu’s savage response. There was an awkward pause before she recovered enough to continue. “Yes … Warfare Division has analyzed the concept of operations, and we believe it has the following weaknesses. First, …”
In the end, after hours of sometimes rancorous argument, the conference came down to a single issue. Michael watched transfixed while Vice Admiral Jaruzelska marshaled her thoughts. This conference—an initial briefing for the captains of the ships involved in Operation Opera, the operation to destroy the Hammer antimatter plant—was his first opportunity to see firsthand how the men and women responsible for the defense of the Federated Worlds worked. For Michael, one of the most junior officers present by a big margin, it was an education in itself. An unholy mix of politics, expediency, strategy, power, and ill-concealed ambition transformed the conference into a brutal contest refereed with ruthless efficiency by Fleet Admiral Kefu.
It was a long way from the dry and dusty debate he had expected, and now it was Jaruzelska’s turn to enter the ring. She had a fight on her hands; sadly, if Kefu’s body language offered any guide, it was a fight she was not going to win.
“Sir,” Jaruzelska said to Kefu, “I have to call this the way I see it. Yes, we can launch Operation Opera within six weeks, but that would be inadvisable and imprudent.”
She paused. Utterly absorbed, Michael stared not at Jaruzelska but at Kefu. The admiral’s face tightened noticeably at Jaruzelska’s uncompromising tone. You’re going to lose this, Admiral Jaruzelska, Michael decided.
“It will be extremely tight,” Jaruzelska continued, “and not just for the dreadnoughts. This is a complex operation. Logistics will be tight, as will the operations designed to draw Hammer forces away from Devastation Reef. All of that can be man—”
“Cut to the chase, Admiral, please. We don’t have all day,” Kefu said.
“No, sir, we don’t. But to expect the follow-on dreadnought squadrons to be combat-ready in a matter of weeks is unrealistic. To throw those ships into an assault on the most heavily defended, the most important target we have ever attacked before they are ready is to invite their destruction. Not that losing ships is the problem”—she paused to look around the room—“but losing them for no good reason certainly is. To go early has no merit. The Hammer plant is not going anywhere. Delay Opera by three months and you will have an operational dreadnought force—thirty properly trained, operationally effective ships—to spearhead the attack. And that means our chances of success will be significantly greater. It’s that simple, sir.”
Michael watched Jaruzelska fight to turn the argument her way. The admiral’s logic was faultless, but he had no doubts where the issue would finish up. The decision to go early had been made; that much was obvious from what Kefu had said, and the politicians among Fleet staff—which, in Michael’s jaundiced view, was all of them—were falling in behind him. The one person who might have swung the issue—the commander in chief, Admiral Shiu—had sided with the “go early” lobby, so go early it was.
Michael tuned out of what fast became an utterly pointless argument, an argument Jaruzelska was never going to win, his mind turning to the pressing issue of how to turn two young and inexperienced officers into effective dreadnought squadron commanders in half the time he needed. Rao and Machar might have been picked after a ruthless selection process that confirmed their innate tactical brilliance, but that did not give him any guarantees that they would hold up under the severe p
ressure of combat, even with Jaruzelska’s support and guidance.
Considering what he was expected to achieve with his dreadnoughts, Michael was strangely calm. The chances of any of the dreadnoughts surviving Operation Opera were slim—that was obvious—which meant their crews might not survive, either. There was too little time to bring the dreadnoughts up to speed, too little time to plan the operation properly, too little time to simulate the operation often enough to expose the flaws in the operational planning, too little time to rehearse.
In short, there was a good chance that Operation Opera—the one operation that had to be a success if the Federated worlds were to survive—would turn out to be one of the great military disasters of all time.
Why the rush? Michael’s guess—it was only a guess—was that Kefu had allowed himself to be steamrolled by the politicians, the real ones this time, not Fleet’s part-timers, the elected ones who fancied that they actually governed the Worlds. Panicked by the Hammers’ antimatter missiles, they wanted Fleet to make the problem go away. Now!
And who would be responsible for doing that? Vice Admiral Jaruzelska, of course. She was commander of Battle Fleet Lima and would be held to account for the operation’s success or failure. And on whom would she rely to do the hard work to get Opera across the line? Lieutenant Michael Helfort and the ships of the dreadnought force. Who else?
Terrific, he thought, vainly trying to ignore the crushing weight of Jaruzelska’s expectations. For chrissakes, how was he ever going to pull this one off?
Helfort's War Book III Page 17
